None So Blind
by Mary West
Summary: Set at Oxford prior to WWII, Jim Prideaux is trying not to let his crush on Bill Hayden show. Written for Yuletide 2017


Jim Prideaux could tell Bill was about to speak. And it was something serious, but Bill didn't want it to appear serious. There was something about the way Bill Haydon leaned back on the stone wall outside the Turf, drawing deep on his cigarette and flicking the ash into the tiny square of grass that was all that remained of the ancient grounds, that had Jim's awareness up and ready.

"You know that interview I had last week, Jim?"

Jim said nothing. He rarely did. Picking up his pint, he observed the head, the way it filled the glass with a satisfying amber glow. The scent of hops was strong as the bubbles travelled up the glass, adding to the foamy top in infinitesimal layers. Their bitterness was slightly marred by the smoke drifting past him, but he wouldn't complain. Bill would grin, and then go somewhere else to smoke, and Jim didn't want him to go. It wasn't often he got to have Bill for himself.

He gestured with the glass to give Bill the go-ahead. As if Bill needed any encouragement. He would talk enough for both of them and then more. They'd been close friends for so long they could read each other's minds, or so the rest of the college thought. And they could keep thinking that. Because that was all there was. Jim looked down into his glass to hide the touch of longing that always seemed to leak out when it was just him and Bill. If Bill ever saw it…

"I don't think it was really a civil service position. Or not a proper one. Didn't seem to have a set office, or a department. Just some sort of puzzle-solving malarkey, like those children's albums at Christmas." Bill took another puff on the dwindling butt, and then ground it out on the cobblestones. "Couldn't even tell me which building it would be in – just somewhere in Whitehall."

Jim took a long, satisfying pull at the pint, the sharp flavour intense and refreshing on such a hot day. His back was cool where he, too, leaned against the ancient stones. Bill had managed to take the last of the shade, leaving him in a patch of sun that felt surprisingly hot for Britain. South of France he might have expected it, or Italy. He'd spent enough time in both. But this sun was a stranger to England and did not visit often.

Bill was sitting patiently, knowing there would be a response when a response was ready. He would wait for Jim, let him choose his own time to respond. Probably the main reason why Jim stayed with him, to have that space to talk instead of being talked over like that Wilson chap. Mind you, he sometimes thought Wilson was trying to get a bit too close. Word around college was that Wilson liked men more than he liked women. Which Jim couldn't really take umbrage at, but he wasn't interested in the conceited, unreliable little shit, and Wilson just wouldn't go away. But Bill…

"Had all these weird questions, though. Had I been a part of that bunch of bloody Bolsheviks who used to meet behind the Bird and Baby, and had I written anything for the Daily Worker? As if I'd touch that piece of union-ballocking red scumming scandal-rag. Haven't been near the communists for years. They have terrible suppers, and the worst drinks." Bill's tone was mocking more than condemning. "But I'll be having words with Professor Chalter about it. Waste of bloody time, when I should be studying."

"As if you'd be studying." Jim's voice was low and confident, the complete opposite of how he felt inside. The beer was helping a little. The sun a little more. He would have closed his eyes, but that would mean not looking at Bill, sideways, when he didn't think Bill would notice.

"Well, doing other things that need doing. There's that exhibition next week, and I'm determined to get a bloody blue ribbon this time." Bill had his hands behind his head now, leaning back to look up at the light filtering through the trees on the other side of the city wall. "I don't have time to go running around with a bunch of flaming socialists as well. Who the hell would?"

Who would, indeed? Bill certainly ran around with lots of people. That young debutante the other week behind the Radcliffe Camera at night. Jim had seen them leave the College dinner, and, bored, had followed them. But he wouldn't tell. Or the dubious-looking type who Bill had kept in long, low conversation outside the college gates when they had less than two minutes to get inside before being officially marked late. Bill said it was a travelling salesman , and Bill owed him for some bottles of brandy that were hidden beneath his bed. Jim was about to ask him, though. Ask him about the man he had seen with Bill at the back of the Taylor the week before last, talking behind the shelves on Russian Dialects. Bill had been leaning forward, eagerly, it seemed, and the other had been reluctant. But surely Bill wouldn't be soliciting… no, not Bill. Jim was sure he was overlooking something, but it was more important at this time to keep his own image of Bill as pure and clean as possible, separate from the necessary sordidness that was the lot of the sodomite. Besides, Jim knew he was building up an image that could not be true. Bill was on a pedestal, certainly, and one as bright and shining as any acolyte made for his god.

And all this introspection was not Jim's game. He felt like a hunter, waiting, watching in the sun, for his prey to … to do what? It wasn't as if Jim would pounce like a tiger, pin Bill down and kiss him. He wasn't even sure Bill would let him. Or if Bill would, but then would laugh about it and spread it around the streets of Oxford that Jim Prideaux, champion of the Keble's Rugby team, was a filthy poof.

Almost blushing with shame, which was foolish, as there wasn't any reason to think that Bill could read his mind, Jim looked up from his beer and caught the other man's eye. For a moment, a brief second, Jim felt more like the prey.

Then the moment was over, and Bill was starting to unwind his body from its lazy slouch, not even needing the wall to help himself up despite the languor which must have settled in with the warmth.

"Come on, old thing. I need your help."

"Mine?"

"Yes, Jim. Yours. Did I tell you my aunt Sercomb is coming tomorrow? She's bringing my cousin – can't stand the girl. She's so stuck up and thinks herself the cream of the crop after her finishing school. God, if I never see Ann again, it won't be too soon. So my rooms have to be neat and ready for them."

Jim waited. This wasn't the real reason. Bill's rooms were always spotless, so tidy it was a wonder he could do any study in them at all.

"Also, Chalter wanted me to tell him about anyone else I thought might be interested, and I mentioned your name. He said for me to let you know he'd like to see you next week. Monday. After your … why the hell are you learning Czech anyway? It's not like the country will be there much longer, now that the Germans want to walk into it and take it back."

"I like Czech. It makes sense." Jim put down his now empty glass, and stood up. "But if that's not until Monday, why do you need my help now?"

"Because, you daft bugger, I've been wanting to kiss you for the last half an hour, and we can't do it out here. Your rooms are always full of rugby jerseys and books. My rooms, on the other hand, need a bit of messing up. Shall we?"

The wave of joy that went through Jim almost completely obliterated the nagging question behind it. Why now? Why him? But none of that mattered. It was Bill, and Bill wanted him too. Jim shoved the questions down deep, and walked briskly after Bill as they headed back to their college.


End file.
